


Solemnity in Autumn

by Syndicate_V



Category: Guild Wars, Guild Wars 2
Genre: F/M, glorious beards, long plodding romance, tags to be added as story progresses, tw: child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 16:37:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1864878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syndicate_V/pseuds/Syndicate_V
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aisling Vexwind, Norn elementalist, is a fitting example of most words that come to mind when one thinks of the towering people that inhabit her race. She is fierce, intimidating, rough around the edges, and demanding when it comes to her liquor. She wields her tongue as if it were her dagger and barely has time for those hindering her duties.</p><p>Sigvaldi Fjarsson is one of those people. A budding guardian with a rather cocky swagger, he has taken to the rather shut-in Aisling with a fervor that excites and confuses her all at the same time. Alas, time will not allow her to dwell on this new development that confounds her so thoroughly, and impedes her at every moment.</p><p>(A rather long-taking story, the synopsis will more than likely be looked over several times because I’m incredibly nitpicky.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solemnity in Autumn

It has never ceased to amaze Aisling Vexwind that humans come to Hoelbrak, come to the Shiverpeaks--so aptly named--and immediately complain of the cold. Next to the Asura Gate are two such examples, frail sorts (though all humans seem rather pithy in comparison to the bulky Norn that Aisling herself is so used to seeing mill about) wearing gauzy silks and huddled together in their miserable state. One--the woman--brushes a few flakes of snow from her short-cropped burgundy locks and attempts to stand at her full height; a wasted effort at saving face. Likewise, her partner, a wan-looking male with swarthy skin, runs a hand down his features and straightens his back. Both movements are pointless; their spines shiver underneath their regal raiment as they hold tightly to their hefty luggage.

The Asura--Phirr--attending his precious Gate chokes back his smart remark (only barely, it is obvious) to assist the pair in stepping down from the Gate's platform. He murmurs something about how climate changes paired with the differences in altitude can be tricksy on a body's state; but, of course, everything'll be fine once the body is allowed to rest, no "seeing the sights" until that happens. The pair nod sagely; they have heard this all before, but it does not stop them from shivering, nor does it stop the man from seeming a bit "green around the gills", so to speak.

Though Aisling has been standing there for quite some time, it has taken Phirr until his spiel is over to notice her, as it always has. In the manner that Asura only can, he motions her over with no small amount of impatience. Aisling bends down immediately, ignoring the pain that shoots up at her back at the odd angle she has to get at just so the incredibly short Asura doesn't have to strain himself. Honestly.

His hands gesture towards the pair, and with a smile that doesn't quite reach his green-tinted irises, he murmurs, "If you'd be so kind as to take the lovely Sir and Lady Gospodi to your inn, Aisling, it'd be greatly appreciated." Underneath his words are the obvious undertones of an order, one that Aisling is incredibly used to hearing.

She nods, righting her body once more with her hand discretly supporting her lower back. Far too young to be having back problems; she's only sixteen years of age! She dusts her hands off on the shoddy edges of her worker's tunic, offering an easy smile to the couple.

"Da's inn is right this way; please follow me!"

 

  
A fringe benefit of being of the hearty Norn people is that she is thick of skin; the blustering winds do not bother her overmuch. The same cannot be said for Aisling's new-found followers, of course. Along the rather short walk to her father's inn (a bit under a mile from the Asura Gate, not too stressful at all, she'd think), they ask in stilted sentences (several times) how long the journey will take. Her response is always the same: "Just a bit longer; don't worry!" She beams a practiced smile to the chilled couple and carries on, hastening her steps in the hopes that they will take the hint and follow suit.

One would think that--if you're so _darn cold_ \--you'd pick up the pace a little, yeah?

Not the case. Aisling's hurried steps--her not-so subtle hint--is either not taken up on or soundly ignored with all the charm and rudeness that nobles have. Second only to the unflappable air of superiority of Asura, a fact Phirr has drilled into her time and time again. Norn do the punchy-punch, Asura do the thinky-think. The other races fall in line in other stereotypes elsewhere.

In her hurried gait, the young woman rolls her eyes. What a bitter coot that one is. Always pursing his lips, lower one jutting out to reveal the bottom row of his teeth, only halfway cared for (" _And what would_ **you**   _know of proper hygiene, girl? If it isn't ale or the Spirits, you lot won't hear of it!_ "). His serpentine eyes are always narrowed in distaste (save for when customers arrive; always, always, _always_  hold back on the snark until after you get paid). And his nostrils. Aisling wonders if such a flaring is normal, but chalks it up to "abnormal bitterness", a phrase she's heard her father mutter under his breath in reference to their business partner. As apt a phrase as any, for certain.

Remembering to not forget those sluggishly following after her, she turns her head slightly, keeping the human pair in sight. The woman is still stony-faced, the male still tired. To bolster their spirits, she pulls her "customer-wrangling voice" and points to the building a few minutes away from them, only one if they pick up the pace.

"See that? It's our destination; food and a nice, warm bed'll be waiting for you once you get inside." Her tone usually puts weary travelers at ease, and, for a moment, she can see the tenseness at the woman's eyes fade. But she blinks, and it is gone, replaced with the same stony glare. Shame, Aisling would've liked a few coppers as a tip.

It bothers the young woman, but, like Phirr, she doesn't let the irritation reflect in her gaze. Instead, she lets the now-fragile smile stretch all the wider, adding an extra bounce to her step as she makes her way to the inn. _Just a few steps more._

Brittle moments pass, and Aisling is at the broad doors of the inn, placing a hand on them as if they are her old friends. Once more, she tries her hand at offering her frail smile at her human guests. Nothing. Ach, kindness goes for dolyak dung these days.

With a heavy sigh passing her lips, she presses her weight against the doors, opening them. Her father's hearty greeting immediately comes to her, a rich sound that she has appreciated since her youth.

"Ah! Aisling! You're back! And I see you've brought guests!" Aisling's father--Hjorf Alvarsson--booms. He is by no means a small man, even for a Norn, so his voice carries, even in the relatively large lobby of the inn. He carries two large mugs of what Aisling knows to be their finest ale, undoubtedly to impress their nonplussed guests. A few drops of the amber coloring splashes across his mahogany skin, a few shades darker than Aisling's own. He moves a hand to wipe at one of his cheeks, realizes that both are full, and laughs at himself for his own actions.

"Ah, dear, won't you help your fool of a dad?" With one mug, he motions towards his daughter. Her smile is less akin to glass now, more genuine, and she alleviates her father of both of the tankards so that he may take the humans' luggage from them. The entire time, he is chuckling from behind his thick black beard, lifting the luggage (that they've had a bit of trouble with) effortlessly. "Please, please; I'll move this to your room. You sit here and eat, get some food after the trip."

The woman-- _Lady Gospodi_ , Aisling remembers--narrows green eyes and points her nose forward at the jovial Norn. "I'm certain you can understand why I'm simply not going to leave my luggage with you,  _Sir_." She spits out the last word as if it were a curse, a load of venom and spite hurled at Hjorf as if he, personally, has wronged her by intention alone. But Aisling's father is a man slow to anger, and he lets the insult glide easily off of his large shoulders. Nevertheless, Sir Gospodi cuts weary eyes warningly towards his wife, his hand on her arm her only cue to not cause any strife to occur. The journey, while not overly long, has been tiresome, and he simply wants to get some rest. But she is wired, jumpy, and this unfamiliar man  _demanding his rights_  to  _her things_  is setting her off.

Hjorf, smile still perfectly in place, luggage still in his grip, simply states, "Then come with me." He shifts one bag higher on his hip. "See where your room is, make sure I don't mess with anything." His eyes--amber in nature, the same as his daughter's--rove other to Lady Gospodi's husband. "We'll only be gone but a moment. Don't do anything untoward to my daughter, hm?" His grin widens as he beckons towards the Lady. Startled, her first steps after Hjorf are wobbly before she quickly corrects herself and regains her lost confidence.

The silence left in Hjorf's wake is awkward, to say the least. Aisling drops the two tankards on the nearest table and turns towards Sir Gospodi. Clearing her throat, she pulls at a strand of vibrant red hair before delving into conversation, eager to ignore what her father has said.

"The...other reservations were made a few days from now. So you should have it nice and quiet for a few, save for the normal kitchen noise. But we try to keep it so, normally. You know...nice and quiet." She notices he isn't looking at her, possibly isn't listening to her, but barrels her way through anyways. "I share duties with Da, but he mostly cooks. If the place is too cold or too hot, let me know and I'll see what I can do." She wiggles her fingers. "Elementalist and all that."

Sir Gospodi still hasn't acknowledged her existence, so she shrugs and holds out one of the chairs to the table she's laid out the mugs on. "Anyways, as soon as Da comes back, we'll have your food out. Tonight's special is 'yak steak and cabbage stew with a side of tarragon bread. Dessert's mixed berry pie, if that's your thing."

Now he looks at her, **really looks at her**.

His voice is low, almost reverent. "This place is the home of the Six, I'm certain of it."

And her father's booming voice is back, laughing affably as if it is his job. "Oh, don't say that! You haven't even tried my cooking yet!"


End file.
